Panic
by Sherlock221
Summary: An injured John causes Sherlock to have a panic attack. Hurt/John/Sherlock Protective/John.
1. Panic

A/N Hello readers :D I really hope you like this story. I think its going to be a one-shot, but I can make it a two chapter story if you would like. Enjoy!

Panic

John's eyes whipped open. Blinking rapidly, he is able to clear the spots from his eyes. He looks around him in the darkness, but all he hears is someone breathing heavily. Breathing to fast. John's eyes, finally adjusting to the darkness, land on a figure, who has his back against the wall, knees up to his chest, and head buried in his hands. "Sherlock?" John questions, his voice dripping with concern.

Sherlock's head lifts up so fast that he becomes dizzy for a second. His eyes are wide and John can barely make it out, but it looks as though his cheeks are wet. Tears? John almost gasps at the odd sight.

"Sherlock?" John asks again, moving forward until he is kneeling in front of Sherlock. "What's wrong?"

John moves to grasp Sherlock's chin, but Sherlock jerks away, throwing his head back so that the streetlights hits his face. John can finally see. His friend's face has tears streaming down it.

"Sher-"

"Is this what it felt like?" Sherlock whispered, eyes sinking down, as if in shame.

"What-"

"For you. When I- Oh god!"

Sherlock rolls his head back against the wall as if in pain, and then buries his head in his hands again, taking short breaths.

"I'm so sorry, John," Sherlock cried. "Oh god. I am so sorry."

"Sherlock, it's alright," John comforted, thoroughly confused at what was happening in front of him. Sherlock was having a breakdown. Sherlock. This didn't- This wasn't supposed to happen.

"It's not!" Sherlock suddenly yells. "It's not ok. What I did to you- It's not ok."

And then it clicks. Sherlock is talking about faking his death. Just moments ago, John and him were chasing a man they thought could be the killer of the recent deaths in town. They got separated and John ended up being body slammed into a wall by the killer, in an alleyway. His head connected harshly with the wall and he blacked out. Sherlock must have found him and tried to wake him from unconsciousness. Of course, Sherlock must have known he wasn't dead, but it must have scared him straight. John could feel the blood matted on the side of his head. That must have triggered the memories for Sherlock. _Oh god_.

"Sherlock, listen to me," John begs. "It's alright. Take some deep breaths for me."

Sherlock lifts his head and tries to do as his friend asked. John swears he sees him trying, But the first breath he takes stops short and he ends up in a coughing fit. John sees Sherlock's muscles tighten and he lets out a cry that goes straight to John's heart. And then Sherlock does the unexpected. His eyes are squeezed shut, the pain and fear are evident on his face, but suddenly he reaches out to fist a hand in John's jacket. John's heart sinks.

John scoots closer to Sherlock and begins rubbing his back in attempt to soothe him.

"Sherlock, breathe."

Sherlock has gone red in the face and his eyes are wide again. He takes a shaky to-short breath and fixes his eyes on John. Reality hits John like a ton of bricks. He moves his hand to clasp Sherlock wrist but he doesn't waste time counting, he can feel his pulse jumping in his veins. It obvious that Sherlock's heart is beating way to fast.

"Sherlock, you're having a panic attack," John states, his voice beginning to shake. _You have to stay calm for him._ "Have you ever experienced one before?"

Sherlock shakes his head and shuts his eyes again, causing more tears to run down his face.

"You have to slow your breathing. Just calm down."

"Hurts, John-"

"I know. I know. Just breathe through it. Nice and slow."

Seconds pass. Minutes pass, but to John it feels like hours. John keeps up his constant mantra of "It's ok, you're ok, just breathe." But it doesn't seem to be doing a damn thing.

John reaches out and takes Sherlock's chin in his hand, forcing Sherlock to look at him. _Damn, he looks scared._

"Sherlock. I forgive you."

"Wha- John-" Sherlock tries to talk but his words stumble over themselves and he is left breathless once again.

"No don't talk," John states. "I forgive you. For all of it. Faking your death. Being away for so long. It's over. I'm done being mad. I forgive you. Now breath god damn it." And he meant it. He really did. All he wanted when Sherlock died was for him to come back, and he did.

Sherlock closed his eyes, his chest begin to rise and fall with more deep breaths. John waited a few more minutes. Carefully observing Sherlock's breathing, he was relieved to see his friend breathing evenly. Finally.

John sighed with relief. "Feeling better?"

Sherlock nodded. "You don't..have to lie," Sherlock said, taking a long breath in between.

"I'm not," John smiled, happiness reeling inside him at the fact that Sherlock was looking better and being more like himself.

"I know how to breathe, John."

John laughed. "Well, it certainly didn't seem like it."

"Can we go home now?" Sherlock asked. The fear was gone from his eyes and John could see faint smile tugging at his mouth.

"God, yes."

A/N Please review to let me know what you thought! It would mean the world to me!


	2. Only Human Part One

Hello my amazing readers! I have decided to make this a series of one-shot/two-part stories about Sherlock having panic attacks. I hope you like this idea! Please let me know what you think. Thank you for all the reviews, follows and favorites on the first chapter!

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**Only Human Part One**

John tried his best to pull his jacket around him against the cold. His hands were filled with shopping bags, making it difficult to accomplish. The store had been a nightmare. Long lines, and fussy pin machines only added to his frustration that he was the only one who ever went out to retrieve the shopping.

Finally, 221B came into view, as did Lestrade standing in front of the door smoking a cigarette.

John smiled in greeting. "Greg, what are doing here?" he asked, lightheartedly, grateful for the man's presence. It had been awhile since he had come to Sherlock for a case and the man was starting to drive John insane.

"Ah, got a case I need Sherlock's help on," Lestrade sighed, crushing the cigarette between his fingers and pocketing the stub.

"Thank god for that," John stated as he set down one handful of bags and pulled out his keys to unlock the door. "He's been dreadful lately."

Lestrade laughed and followed John in the door, shutting it behind him.

"I'll grab him for you," John said, once they were inside the flat, setting down the groceries on the kitchen table.

From the kitchen John could hear the shower running. Lestrade settled himself in a kitchen chair as John walked to stand in front of the bathroom door.

"Sherlock, I'm back," John said, knocking on the door and then halting it to wait for a reply before saying, "You have a visitor."

Silence was all that answered him. It wasn't uncommon for Sherlock to get lost in thought, but John couldn't remember a time when it had ever happened in the _shower_. The last thing he needed was a pneumonia-ridden detective on his hands.

A pit of worry began to grow in John's stomach, but he tried to push it down. Maybe Sherlock was just ignoring him.

He tried knocking again and barely noticed Lestrade walking over to stand by him. "Sherlock?"

Nothing.

He started to bang on the door. " Sherlock!" John yelled, no longer questioning. Fear began to rise, threatening to come pouring out. "Answer me!"

"Probably just being a prat, John," Lestrade sighed.

John ignored him, knowing that at least Sherlock would normally shout at him to leave him alone.

"Answer me, or I'm coming in, Sherlock." Nothing. "That's it."

John would look back and wish that he wouldn't have opened the door, left Sherlock alone and wait for everything to be normal again.

"Sherlock?" John inquired as he poked his head into the room.

The steam from the shower enveloped his face, blurring his vision for a moment. He half expected to see Sherlock in his mind palace beneath the spray, maybe staring off into space while absentmindedly shampooing his hair.

He didn't expect to see the fully clothed man curled into a ball in the corner of the stall, eyes blank behind the crystallized door.

John cried his friend's name and slid the glass door to the side, momentarily getting rained on by a hot spray before he managed to turn it off.

Rivulets of blood mixed with water spiraled towards the drain. John stared at it and soon his eyes drifted over Sherlock trying to find the source of the blood, before he became distracted with the man's face.

Sherlock was staring straight in front of him with a blank face, but his eyes were the most intriguing. To John, he looked terrified. A bruise had begun to form on his cheek, a small cut in the middle of it.

His mind didn't even register the ache in his knees as he bent down next to Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" John questioned, cautiously. Sherlock made no sign to show that he was aware anyone was speaking to him or was even in the room with him. But John swore he saw the slightest flinch run through the man's body.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John tried again, aching to reach out to him. _Are you okay? _was the instinctual question, but it seemed useless right now. John settled for shedding his jacket and wrapping it around Sherlock. The thin material clung to him on contact. The waster had been burning when he shut it off, but not hot enough to do any damage. The jacket was for some sort of comfort. It wouldn't do much good at all, but the effort made John feel like he wasn't useless.

"Sherlock." John's voice was more direct now, but he still wasn't getting a single sign that Sherlock could hear a word he said. "You're scaring me."

He had almost forgot Lestrade was here and looked back to shoot him a worried glance. Silently, he asked _have you ever seen him act like this?_

Lestrade shrugged as if understanding what John was conflicted with.

Turning back, he swallowed as Sherlock's teeth started to chatter audibly. It was the first change in his state since John had entered the room. John attempted to get in front of Sherlock's line of sight, but he seemed to be staring straight through him. He brought his hand up to place an most uncomfortable squeeze Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed gently.

The reaction was instant. A hand wrapped firmly around John's wrist and Sherlock's eyes whipped to his. "John," Sherlock whispered. His voice sent chills through John's spine. He sounded weak and shaken.

"Are you ok?" John asked, noticing his voice sounded very much like he was out of breath.

Sherlock released John's wrist and it took john a moment to notice the bloody handprint that was left on his jumper. _So the cut is on his hand, _John thought.

"No John, the question is: What the fuck am I doing in the shower?" Sherlock asked then started giggling, hysterically. John looked back at Lestrade in question, who had come fully into the bathroom now.

"Sherlock, it's just us." John said gently but Sherlock wasn't listening and his panting getting heavy. Now the man was starting to panic and John had to calm him down and fast or he might just fall into a panic attack.

John fell to his knees softly and moved slowly closer to Sherlock so as not to spook the already panicking man. As he got closer John could see that Sherlock's eyes were unfocused and a keen sweat was building up on his pale skin, clearly the man wasn't all here right now.

A panicked glaze fell over Sherlock's eyes and his breathing became short and raspy. "John," he gritted out.

John slowly reached out a hand again and laid it softly on Sherlock's chest causing him to flinch. "You need to slow you're breathing down."

"Can't," Sherlock whimpered and squeezed his eyes shut, a few tears making their way down his cheeks. Sherlock placed his bloody hand over John's and squeezed, digging his nails into it before letting out a pained sob.

"Look at me, Sherlock," John demanded. Wet blue eyes caught his. John's heart broke at the pleading look they sent him. "Good. Slow down your breathing. In through your nose and out your mouth."

The first intake was shaky and seemed goddamned hard to accomplish, but he was listening and John was sure if that made him feel good or even more worried. A consenting Sherlock wasn't always a good thing.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand impossibly harder, trying desperately to follow his instructions.

He opened his eyes again, and this time they were slightly more focused. He kept his gaze on John and mimicked his breathing pattern. John kept up a whispering mantra of '_You're safe_.', '_I'm here_.', '_It's alright_.' and most importantly '_Come back to me, Sherlock_.'.

Time passed slowly and bit by bit John saw Sherlock calming down, half an hour had nearly passed before Lestrade's voice broke the silence of the room. "What can I do, John?"

John tried to hide his jump of surprise at the man's close presence. "First aid kit, under my bed; can you grab it?" John tried his best to look grateful and in truth, he was. Moments like this with Sherlock were rare and terrifying. It was nice to have the lingering presence of a friend close by.

Lestrade turned around like a man on a mission and started off to John's bedroom.

"Can I see your hand?" John asked quietly, feeling as though anything above a whisper would scare Sherlock.

Sherlock stuck out his hand and John grimaced at the bloodied cut running across the whole of it.

"Doesn't look too deep. Just need to clean and bandage it," John said, knowing fully well he was probably talking to himself. Sherlock had fallen completely silent, still focusing on his evening his breathing.

There was silence for a few moments, and john noticed Sherlock grasping at his chest with one hand as if every breath he took pained him. John sent him a concerned look. "You're safe, you know."

"I know I'm safe!" Sherlock snapped, his nose scrunching up in irritation. His whole body must be aching but that didn't stop him from pulling his knees closer to his chest and wrapping his arms around them tightly. "Sorry.."

"Can you tell me what happened?" John inquired, just as Lestrade set down the med bag next to his knees. "Thank you, Greg."

Greg nodded, looking incredibly uncomfortable. "I'll just..go and make some tea."

"That would be great, Greg, thanks," John replied, managing a smile, before rummaging through the bag and gathering the supplies he needed.

Sherlock stayed quiet as John cleaned and bandaged his hand, which worried John even more. He awkwardly began to clean up and put his supplies away.

"Well-" John started.

"I'm Sorry-"

They spoke at the same time, resulting in Sherlock looking down with a frustrated face.

"What could you possibly have to be sorry for?"

"You shouldn't have had to see that." Sherlock croaked.

"Sherlock, you have nothing to be ashamed of, it's perfectly natural for you to-" John tried but Sherlock interrupted him.

"Not for me."

John sighed, running a hand through his hair. "What happened?"

Wrong question. Sherlock visibly started to shake. John stared directly into Sherlock's eyes as the wall came up and he stared back at him blank eyes. The vibrant blue that usually answered him with a childlike curiosity was gone.

"Sherlock, I want to take your bedroom and get you dry. Can you help me?" John asked.

The shaking began to increase coursing through his whole body.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, when suddenly Sherlock's eyes rolled back into his head.

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**A/N Please let me know what you thought. It means the world to me.**


	3. Only Human Part Two

A/N Thank you so much for the reviews on the last chapter! I hope you enjoy this one. Please let me know what you thought!

**Only Human Part Two**

Consciousness floods over Sherlock like a tidal wave. He tries to take a deep breathe, but it catches in his chest, refusing to rise to the surface. Voices flood his ears and the overwhelming sensation to cover them becomes unbearable. Instead, he puts all his energy in trying to focus. The words sound calming, or maybe that's just what they want him to think. _Wait, not voices. Just one. Focus._

Stern, calming and patient. All add up to. John.

"Sherlock." John's voice cuts through the air and finally the buzzing sound falls from his ears. "Hey. Hey. It's alright."

Sherlock can feel one strong hand on his shoulder and one on his chest. Words float around in his throat to tell John "Of course, I'm fine. I'm always fine", but unwelcome panic chokes him and he swallows it back, tasting bile in his throat and dragging in one good breath.

"That's good," John says, and squeezes his shoulder. The praise shouldn't send warmth through his chest, but it does. "Can you do that again?"

The warmth fades as he realizes he's being soothed. Sherlock wants to kick him for that, but he finds his limbs stuff and unresponsive.

"Fuck. You," he rasps, wincing at how weak his voice sounds and shaking his head.

"If you can insult me, you can breathe," John states patiently and Sherlock can't help but notice the worried tone of his voice.

Sherlock pries his eyes open and attempts to clear his throat, but it must be obvious how much it hurt because a fresh wave of concern fall over John's face. "What happened?"

"You passed out." John rubs slow circles on his chest and Sherlock can't decide whether to tell him to fuck off, or never stop. "Scared the shit out of me," John smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Probably because you're not getting enough oxygen."

_Oxygen. In. out. Inhale. Exhale. Carbon dioxide. Exhausting._

Sherlock starts to reply, but his breath catches again. He chokes on it for a moment, coughs, and coughs again. Before he realizes it he's tripping headfirst into an all-out coughing fit. His chest feels like it's burning, like his rib cage is clenching down on his insides.

"Slow it down," John says. His voice is good and Sherlock can't find it in himself to care if it's soothing again. Firm but not forceful. Supporting. "Into your diaphragm."

Sherlock can't help glaring as he makes a conscious effort to slow his breathing. A sick rush of panic washes over him. "Can't."

"Yeah, you can. It's okay. It's fine."

Sherlock clamps his arms around his stomach and doubles over. Oh God, will it _ever_ stop? Will he ever be able to breathe properly again? Is he permanently damaged? If he can't breathe, he can't _think_. He will deprive his brain of oxygen and smother it to death and then he will be worthless, utterly fucking _worthless_. He can feel the cellular damage creeping in like fog in the corners of his eyes and a high-pitched whine in his ears—

John clamps one hand on the back of Sherlock's neck and squeezes, hard. Sherlock snarls and tries to twist out of his grasp, but his limbs are unresponsive.

"Hey! Wait, Sherlock, keep still!" John shouts. "I'm just trying to help."

_Hands. Hands all over him. Too much._ "Don't touch me."

John sighs, but refuses to pulls his hand away. "I know it hurts, but- Just let me help you."

"I feel like I'm dying," he gasps.

"No," says John, "you're having a panic attack. Again."

Sherlock shoots him a look between questioning and a glare. "This is ridiculous."

"It happens. Just to listen to me, alright, Sherlock?" John practically begs and Sherlock can see the desperation in his eyes.

Sherlock gulps and nods. _God, he's shaking so hard_. His muscles are screaming in protest.

"Good. That's it. Give me one good breath. Slowly. Keep it low."

Sherlock breathes in. _Diaphragm won't stretch. Abdominal is too tight_.

"One more."

_Tries again. Better._

"That's it." His grip on the back of Sherlock's neck relaxes a little. "Now count to five as you breathe in—yeah, just like that. Hold it—hold it—and count to five as you let it out."

Stupid.

"Again. Five in, hold two, five out."

_Stupid_.

John's hand tightens again. "Sherlock."

He inhales, holds, exhales.

John's hand—the one that's not scraping the skin off the back of his neck—comes up to the front of his neck. He tips Sherlock's head up a notch and presses two fingers beside his trachea to feel for a pulse. Gentle. Sure.

"Keep breathing. Five in, hold two, five out."

Sherlock keeps breathing, narrows his focus to the steady drag of air in and out of his lungs.

Gradually, his ears go silent and the colors fade back into his eyesight. He takes one deep, shuddering breath in and lets it out with a sigh. John finally lets him go and he doesn't miss the feeling loss that spreads through him.

Sherlock suddenly realizes his surroundings have changed. The uncomfortable cold tile of the bathroom shower is no longer beneath him. Instead a familiar, comfortable mattress has taken its place.

"There was someone else here," Sherlock slurred, the words grazing over his tongue as memories flood through him.

"Greg," John said, sighing at Sherlock's confused glance. "Lestrade. He helped me get you into bed."

Sherlock hummed, eyes dancing around the room.

"He went home. Figured you'd be pissed about being seen like this," John huffed, a small smile appearing on his face.

Sherlock can't get rid of the sensation that something is missing, something important and fire spreads through his chest as data, way too much data floods his memory. "Mycroft!"

John pulls back with a surprised look on his face. "What about him?"

Sherlock presses his hands against his eyes and rubs hard. "I need to talk to him."

"Why? What is this about, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighs, taking in another deep breath to steady himself before explaining. "The man who attacked me tonight-"

"Wait, what?!"

"He thought I was Mycroft," Sherlock continues, ignoring John's outburst. "Must have heard my last name while I was talking to a client. He tried to stab me and I blocked him with my hand." Picking up his hand, Sherlock stares at the bandages. "Not my best move, but it had the desired effect."

"He ran off." Sherlock presses his fingertips against the cut on his cheek before he takes another deep breath in and finally it washes through him easily. "It's happened before."

The confusion painted on John's face fell instantly. "Someone's attacked Mycroft before?"

"Obviously," Sherlock states. "Not much now since he decided to give up _leg _work, but it's not hard for him to get on the wrong side of enemies."

Sherlock braces his arms to push himself up only to be gently pushed back down. Sherlock huffs in annoyance. "I need to speak with Mycroft."

"No, because you've had two panic attacks in the last hour," John expresses, throwing his hands, palms up, in exaggeration. "I will call him."

A buzz breaks out through the room and light emanates from John's pocket. Pulling it from his jeans, John smiles and faces the screen towards Sherlock.

_Threat has been taken care of. Let Sherlock know, will you? –MH_

John stares hard into Sherlock's face, probably looking for some kind of emotion and Sherlock steels himself to keep his face blank. "Feel better now?"

Sherlock sighs and leans his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Dull. My body has betrayed me once more."

"You're exhausted, Sherlock. You've been running yourself ragged for a week now. It's natural for your body to react to stress when you haven't been taking much care of it."

"This is Mycroft's fault," Sherlock concludes, rolling over on his side.

"And I thought the Holmes brothers didn't have hearts," John laughs.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock turns his head to glare at him.

"Someone was trying to hurt your brother and it scared you." John smiled. "Sounds like sentiment to me."

"Shut up, John."


	4. Sensory Overload

There feeling comes out of nowhere. Actually, no, that's not right. It has been building in the depths of his mind. In the pit of his stomach. Just waiting to be let out. Waiting to crawl into his lungs and take over.

Sherlock's tongue feels heavy and dry. The damn thing is filling the space in his mouth, which doesn't help the burning desire to get one deep breathe at all. His mind is raw. Screaming at him over and over, _too much too much too much. _Can one's mind suffocate? There are no empty spaces. And if there are, fog seeps through the cracks.

He tries to suck in one breath, just one, but it catches in the base of his throat and his whole body tingles at the failed attempt.

Pride is trying to take over, but each breath is harder than the next and he knows he has no choice now. Reaching out a pale arm, he grabs his phone. Numb fingertips enter in the password and pull open a new text.

_Help. SH_

If his phone wasn't programmed to sign his name, he wouldn't have bothered. Another trying breath, another fail.

_Please. SH_

Damn his pride. He needs John. His body is determined to not be able to receive oxygen and he needs John _now. _

Footsteps pounding down the stairs cause another breath to catch in his throat and this time coughing fit follows. It's painful. He throws his phone on the mattress in relieve. John is on his way. He will fix this.

The door to his bedroom bangs open and a panting John stands in the doorway.

"Took you"..._Wheeze_..."long enough."

"What's wrong?" John demands. "What's happening?"

There are many answers Sherlock would like to say, yell or even scream, but his energy is spent and there are only two words he can muster up the energy to say. "Can't. Breathe."

Apparently, those two words were all John needed because he immediately leaps into action. The mattress sinks where John sits, his side brushing Sherlock's and places a hand on his arm.

"Tell me why."

_Why?_ Can't John see what's going on? Information is passing through Sherlock's brain and the speed of light. He wanted John to slow it down, not ask questions!

Sherlock moves to sit up, but numbing spikes shoot up his arm and he cries out. John grabs his shoulder and helps him into what Sherlock wishes was a more comfortable position, but it does nothing to alleviate the throbbing in his chest.

"Sherlock. Tell me why."

Words feel too far beyond him so long fingers reach out to remove John's hand from his arm. He places the hand against his chest and then his head. "Too…much."

The sadness that clouds John's eyes tells Sherlock that he gets it. He finally understands. His breaths are coming in gasps now and he uses his eyes to plead John to make it go away.

Hands are suddenly pushing him away from the headboard and he feels John slide in behind him, his much shorter legs on either side of Sherlock's longer ones. A strong hand is placed over his head and another softly rests on his chest.

"I need you to breathe with me, yeah?" John says, and it almost sounds like he's pleading. His voice shakes where it was once strong.

Sherlock opens his mouth and tries to do as John says, but it's too much. His chest stutters and he's left wheezing.

"Slow down, Sherlock," John says, his tone has dropped to a whisper, but his mouth is right against Sherlock's ear and he focuses all his energy on the man's voice. Anything but the pain is his chest and the wetness building around his eyes. "In through your nose, slowly and out through your mouth." He puts emphasis on the word _slowly _and Sherlock rolls his eyes, but does as he's asked.

Another fail and Sherlock whimpers. A buzzing sound is filling his ears and he feels so tired. He closes his eyes and shuts his mouth.

The hand on his chest starts to rub vigorously, knuckles digging hard into his sternum. "Don't do that, Sherlock!" John yells over the buzzing and Sherlock's eyes burst open. "Holding your breath won't help anything. Try again."

_In through your nose, slowly and out through your mouth. _The words repeat in Sherlock's mind and maybe it's the warming feeling of John rubbing his chest or his soothing, yet angry voice, but he manages a small breath. It feels like the most victorious moment in his life, which is stupid. Isn't it?

"Good." Sherlock can practically hear the smile in John's voice. "Again."

John begins to exaggeratedly breathe with him and Sherlock can feel his chest pressing against his back. He mimics the movement, each time it comes easier than the last.

Sherlock doesn't know how long they sit there together, but the throbbing in his chest finally begins to disintegrate.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?" Words still feel beyond him.

"Say something? Please." The hand placed on his head starts to push back sweat-soaked curls and Sherlock unconsciously leans into it.

"John." His voice sounds weak and he hates it, but the small huff of laughter that emits from John makes everything better.

"Other than my name?"

"I need something," Sherlock states, damning the weakness that still resides in his voice.

"What do you need? Anything, Sherlock."

"Anything?" Sherlock's lips quirk into a small smile as he raises an eyebrow, leaning his head slightly back to look at John. "Cigarette?"

"Uh, no. That's not going to help you with breathing," John says, with a hint of sarcasm and Sherlock huffs leaning forward into the strong hand still rubbing his chest.

"Hm, maybe something stronger than a cigarette, then?" Sherlock asks. The hand stops completely.

John places the hand under Sherlock's chin forcing him to look up at him. He stares hard at Sherlock. "Do you feel the need to use right now?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I can't shut it off, John." Long pale fingers run through dark hair until Sherlock grabs a handful and pulls.

"Ok, calm down." John sighs and places one hand on Sherlock's arm and uses the other to gently pull his hand away from his hair. "Are you asking me for help?"

_Stupid question_. But Sherlock doesn't say that out loud. He knows what John is trying to do; verify that Sherlock is surrendering himself to John's care. "Yes."

Sherlock can practically feel the content from his answer radiating from John and he huffs in defeat. "Good. Then here's what we're going to do…" John starts.

"Please, John, enlighten me with your plan," Sherlock states, trying hard to put a malicious tone on his words, but even he can tell it has failed as John emits yet another huff of laughter behind him.

"I'm going to make tea and we are going to watch crap telly until the morning. Then we will go to breakfast."

Sherlock wants to ask how that will help, but the pain in his head and chest is already fading. John did that. What's the harm in listening to him, for once? So he says, "Ok."

"Really?"

"Yes, but don't you have work in the morning?" The thought of John leaving causes a pang in his chest that he pointedly ignores.

"Taking the day off," John says, and Sherlock can hear the smile in his voice.

"Oh. Sentiment?"

"Damn right, it is."

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A/N Please let me know what you thought!


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